It’s far too early for Vladimir Putin, I think to myself, as I sip my morning coffee, watching in a drowsy mixture of horror and intrigue as the Russian president, known far and wide for his brutality, announces to the sporting world that his country and his heart are “open,” his face contorting into something resembling a human smile.

It’s barely 7 a.m. Thursday, and already I’ve broken my strict “No Dictators Before Breakfast” rule – a rule that’s become particularly hard to follow as of late – but on this first day of the first America-less World Cup in my lifetime, I’m doing my best to keep an open mind.

About soccer, that is. (I’m pretty decided on dictators.) For years, I’ve masqueraded as Guy Who Talks About One Day Becoming A Soccer Fan, feigning enough interest in the Premier League or the Euro Cup to get by in casual conversation, sometimes dropping a dated soccer take to satisfy the most soccer-crazed among my friends, who have tried and failed to coerce me into loving the beautiful game.

The World Cup, however, has always been an exception. For one month, every four years, there’s no need for convincing. I devour as much of the World Cup as possible, blocking out whole afternoons for U.S. matches, rejecting the urge to unironically call the sport “futbol” in full Spanish accent, and promising, every time, to watch more soccer over the four years to come.

But this World Cup promises no such hope, false or otherwise. For the first time since 1986, the USMNT failed to qualify for the world’s preeminent soccer tournament. For American soccer, this was an abject disaster, the culmination of years of mismanagement.

For me, I decided, it was an opportunity. Without the fog of my own American exceptionalism carrying me through the Cup, I could give soccer my complete attention. Maybe this time it would stick.

Which is how I found myself listening to Putin over morning coffee, waiting for the kickoff of Russia versus Saudi Arabia – a matchup, I would later understand, wasn’t exactly brimming with endearing storylines. Saudi Arabia was, far and away, the worst team to qualify for the tournament. Meanwhile, Russia, as host, was mostly just terrified of being humiliated in its opening match. With Putin watching closely from an executive box, I could understand the feeling.

Still, I needed to fill the USMNT-sized hole in my heart. But as Russia cruised to a five-score victory and Saudi Arabia finished the game without a single shot on goal and a pleased Putin leaned over to the Saudi Crown Prince to shake his hand, it dawned on me that rooting for Russia just wasn’t my jam.

My pursuit continued at 4 a.m. the next morning, just as the sun came up and news spread about Mohamed Salah, the ascendant star of an Egyptian national team playing in its first World Cup in nearly three decades. After suffering an injury in the Champions League final, the Premier League’s scoring leader wasn’t slated to start in Egypt’s opener against Uruguay, the favorite in Group A. And as the game began, the entire stadium – the entire country, really – waited for him to sub in.

I waited with them, fighting my own heavy eyelids, the game deadlocked at zero late. I hadn’t seen more than a few highlights of Salah, but the anticipation of his appearance was thrilling, nonetheless. Salah was the kind of magical player who could carry an entire nation on his shoulders, the kind of star to which an aspiring fan, like me, could easily attach.

Except, he never left the bench. Egypt’s manager chose not to insert him into the match. It seemed like a brilliant bit of strategy until just before stoppage time, as a team characterized as a one-man show held off one of the world’s best teams without its leading man.

What grit! What heart! And then, in the 89th minute … what heartbreak! The World Cup has a way of crushing its most spirited upstarts. And as Uruguay found the back of the net with a header, Egypt’s uphill climb to the group stages became all the more steep.

Perhaps I needed to find a more established team. Lucky for me, hours later, Portugal and Spain would find themselves embroiled in an instant classic, two of the world’s best, trading scores. Portugal’s Cristiano Ronaldo racked up a stunning hat trick. Spain’s Diego Costa added two goals of his own. It was thrilling soccer, the kind of game that could capture even the most casual of fans attention.

But … it was all a little too easy. I need to suffer a bit more than that. I couldn’t just swoop in and root for one of the favorites. I needed an underdog. I needed a dark horse.

I needed Iceland.

Iceland is the smallest nation to qualify for the World Cup. With a population less than 350,000, it contains roughly the same amount of people as Bakersfield.

Their players wear comically Icelandic facial hair, with extremely Icelandic names, like Gylfi Sigurðsson. Their national coach, until recently, was a practicing dentist.

And on Saturday morning, as the first World Cup appearance of the smallest team in World Cup history began against powerhouse Argentina and Lionel Messi, no true soccer fan gave them a chance.

For the 85 minutes, as they clung to a tie, they frustrated Argentina’s explosive offense and held on for dear life. Argentina possessed the ball 80 percent of the game. Messi had 10 shots on goal, two more than the entire Icelandic team.

Late in the game, he stood alone in front of Icelandic goalie Hannes Halldorsson for a penalty kick. It was any underdog’s worst nightmare, the best player in the world with a clear shot at the goal. But as Messi’s kick rocketed towards the net, Halldorsson laid out for an incredible, full-extension save.

The game ended in a 1-1 draw. Still, it felt like the biggest victory in the nation’s history. The crowd, which must’ve included half of Iceland’s population, erupted in a thunderous clap.

To get out of the group stage, Iceland will need to best either Croatia or Nigeria, and if they make it to the Group of 16, they’re likely to face France, one of the world’s best teams. But no matter. A thrilling 1-1 tie was enough to convince me. In fact, it was the best thing I’d seen all weekend.

Ryan Kartje is a sports features reporter, with a special focus on the NFL and college sports. He has worked for the Orange County Register since 2012, when he was hired as UCLA beat writer. His enterprise work on the rise and fall of the daily fantasy sports industry (http://www.ocregister.com/articles/industry-689093-fantasy-daily.html) was honored in 2015 with an Associated Press Sports Editors’ enterprise award in the highest circulation category. His writing has also been honored by the Football Writers Association of America and the U.S. Basketball Writers Association. A graduate of the University of Michigan, Ryan worked for the Bloomington (Ind.) Herald-Times and Fox Sports Wisconsin, before moving out west to live by the beach and eat copious amounts of burritos.